


You Know That I Do

by stories11



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: I wrote this months ago as part of one of my other fics, I'm posting it separately since i dont feel it moved story along enough, M/M, This is what you get when a raging lesbian writes borderline gay smut, also a friend convinced me it was a good idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 12:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16063154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stories11/pseuds/stories11
Summary: This is when he should be rising. Exit the situation before he can make it any worse, shower off the scents of a stranger that still linger with him now that their brief story is over. Not even a sentence in the story of secret agent Curt Mega and yet he has the nerve to leave remnants of himself clinging to him even now. Lips curl into a sneer, but he finds himself in thrall to his partner's gaze. Even the darkness of his glower pins him in place with invisible restraint.





	You Know That I Do

     It feels vaguely reminiscent of his teenage years, slipping down a hallway so late into the night that it might be considered morning, and yet still evading the early rays of dawn. With anything resembling luck, Owen will be asleep by now, accepting that the gathering of intelligence lasted well into the night. The bar, by his calculations, would have closed an hour ago. It's not terribly unreasonable to think that his investigation of the mark extended past last call, if only just. A dead end if there ever was one, he really can't be blamed for leaving when he did. An entire evening need not be wasted. The key clicks home in the lock near silently, opening the door slowly, carefully. Luck hasn't necessarily been on his side lately, and the last thing he needs is to swing the door open to reveal a trigger happy partner on the other side, but a preliminary scan of the pitch black room seems to yield no results. A breath he didn't know he was holding in falls from his parted lips as he quietly closes the door behind him.

     Proceeding blindly in the direction of his bed, he starts to shrug off his jacket, already starting to question if he might be able to manage a shower without waking the older man. It probably wouldn't be the best idea to be claiming that the entire night was spent on the operation when the scent of booze has long since faded and been replaced with cigarette smoke and another man's cologne. Shoes are being toed off when he hears it. The unmistakably distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back on a gun, followed by the increasingly familiar sensation of the barrel being pressed to the base of his skull. He might as well paint a target there at this point. With the all consuming darkness as cover, his hand creeps to his hip, only to remember that his ever present pistol had been relegated to an ankle holster for sake of discretion. He's always hated being discreet. There's a chance that his next words might very well be his last. Swallowing, he knows there's only two possibilities. It's either Owen and a case of simple mistaken identity, or his newfound partner is likely a bloody mess somewhere in the room. Maybe he's already walked through the blood and doesn't know any better in the darkness. Hands still, evaluating the chances, however slight, he might be able to disarm the assailant without any grievous wounds. Settling for the more likely option, he decides to speak up. Carvour is like a goddamn cockroach, he's not sure that a bullet between the eyes would be enough to put him down for good, and he's not anticipating tonight to be the night that he learns.

     "It's me."

     An unincriminating response to a question not posed in words, only in threat. He dares not speak his name, nor his partners. If it's Owen, he already knows; and if it's not... they'll just have to get that from their ids, he's not about to make it any easier. An eternity that spans a few milliseconds passes before the hammer clicks back into place and the barrel drops.

     "I know."

     Curt knows that tone, and he can feel the bitterness and discontent rolling off of him without turning to look behind. Of course he's bitter and disapproving. He's always bitter and disapproving, it's hardly a shock. Rolling his eyes, he can feel Owen's own words echo through his mind in a vicious taunt of the current situation.  _I'm not your babysitter, Mega. Could have fooled me, Carvour._  All he really needed was an armchair and a dramatically appropriate lamp to turn on to question why he's out late. He has to bite his tongue not to call the other mom for precisely that reason. Who needs an armchair and a lamp though when they can simply pull a gun and risk a catastrophic accident? Starting to turn, despite the fact he'll see little more than a dark blur in the absence of light, he still tries to speak up.

     "Then why the fuck-"

     Thought is left incomplete as something strikes him hard and fast across the face, sending him sprawling back as he falls. Outstretched hands grasp blankets as his head and shoulders grace the edge of the nearest bed, pulling the comforter down with him in the midst of his sudden descent. Slumped against the side of it, he's briefly blinded when the british agent flips the switch at the wall.  _So there's the dramatic lighting_. As the taller glares at him, he can't help but feel that it's as undeserved as the violent pistol whip to his right cheek. Shielding his eyes from the light with one hand and rubbing his injured cheek with the other, he matches the glower on the other's face, but the effect is lessened by his vantage point on the floor.

     "What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you it was me. What the hell was that for?"

     "The fact that I knew it was you is the only reason you're still breathing."

     "What is that supposed to be comforting? You're a dick, Carvour."

     This is when he should be rising. Exit the situation before he can make it any worse, shower off the scents of a stranger that still linger with him now that their brief story is over. Not even a sentence in the story of secret agent Curt Mega and yet he has the nerve to leave remnants of himself clinging to him even now. Lips curl into a sneer, but he finds himself in thrall to his partner's gaze. Even the darkness of his glower pins him in place with invisible restraint. He tells himself that he wants an answer, that's all, but his faith in such a conviction is shaky at best. Raising an eyebrow at him, he keeps up that air of arrogance, clings to it like a safety net even as the other approaches. Pointedly looking down at him, he's taking full advantage of the power play that the position affords him.

     "You were supposed to be gathering intelligence on the mark. Ever heard of being a professional, Curt, do give it a try."

     Eyes narrow in response. It's not as if he hadn't held every intent of spending the whole of the night watching over the mark, but when it was made exceedingly clear that they had the wrong man, he didn't see reason to waste an entire evening that afforded him the rare commodity of privacy. Owen wouldn't be expecting him back until the early hours. It was anonymous, easy, the definition of no strings attached when he knows he'll never have to see the man again. Whatever had happened with Owen the week prior, it was the definition of strings. A messy entanglement that could only end in pain and disaster, it couldn't happen again, so why should he abstain?

     "I did. Spent the whole night following him. Turns out he's useless to us. Feeling like a big enough man now? He was a dead end, congratulations. You fucked up this time, Carvour, not me. You pegged the wrong man."

     Of course  _he_  would do this. Maybe part of it was a lie, but it wasn't his fault that Owen had sent him off on a fools errand, taking the brief reprieve solely for himself was a sin that he found forgivable. An act of self care in the midst of a hurricane of self destruction. For a few precious hours he didn't need to be an agent. He didn't need to hear his name. He didn't have to talk. He didn't have to think about the partner now towering over him, except his face had still come to him more than he wants to admit to himself. Even now, he's got a smug smile on his face as he looks up to the older feeling somehow self satisfied and yet empty at the same time. Trying to fill himself up on what he perceives as minor victories but it feels hollow and sickly. Swallowing one poison to rid himself of another while the rot still makes its home inside his bones. 

     "You really should become a better liar if you want to survive in this business."

     That tone is hard to read, whether it's genuine advice, a bitter slight, or a thinly veiled threat, he can never tell with him. Even so, his hands reach up to the edge of the mattress to bring himself up off the floor. Even under the burning weight of the other's gaze, he hauls himself up to sit on a more comfortable surface with a laugh. But it's not a jovial sort of thing, it's challenging him. He's not prodding a sleeping tiger with a stick but rather stabbing a rabid wolverine with a cattle prod, simply waiting for the attack that's sure to come. "As perfect as you think you are, you fucked up. Accept it. Or don't. I'm not sure if that ego of yours could afford a hit like that."

     It's easy to see the way that the words are getting under Owen's skin, crawling just beneath the surface of his seemingly stoic exterior that prevails above all. Curt's expression doesn't fade, a challenge. He's daring the other do something- anything- to steal it away. The older's expression seems to fall somewhere between bitter annoyance and something vaguely resembling anger, though beneath it all there's something that the american can't interpret at a glance. Owen's slender hand reaches out, curls itself into the collar of his shirt and tugs him a few inches closer and they're breathing the same air that feels quite thin in the moment.

     "We both know that isn't what I'm talking about." There's the edge of a growl tinting his voice, making a slight shiver crawl up the american's spine before the accusation is hissed out into the room. "You smell like cigarettes and cologne... we both know you haven't been at the bar for hours."

     Curt's hand curls over the one tangled in his shirt, a grin splitting through the smug smile and he laughs. Rather than mitigating danger, he goads him on.

     "You're right, I haven't been... it took less than two to realize that your mark was a dead end. And by then there was a guy who was eyeing me... and he took me home.  _We fucked for hours_." Somehow he feels superior despite the pain still ringing in his cheek, feeling the fingers loosening their grip on his shirt he's expecting him to show disdain, disapproval, anger even at the fact he hadn't just come back so they could regroup. But he feels the need to add one last insult to injury. He can't say why, it's not like him but there's still a compelling need aching in his chest. "...first half way decent fuck I've had in months."

     Switch is suddenly flipped, he can see it in the way that bitterness because clear and present anger, hand retracts from his shirt seemingly in disgust before they're wrapped around his throat. Air supply is quite suddenly cut off while the echoes of taunting laughter still hanging in the air as they died off. Hands grasp as his arms, his wrists, seeming to be attempting to pull free the hands from their chokehold, but they're anchoring points as his legs draw up. With all the force he can muster, he plants his feet against the other's pelvis and pushes off. The strangulation is suddenly ended as the culprit hurtles backwards, losing balance and landing on the floor with gun skidding across the hardwood floor. The battle is on, and even as he recovers his stolen breath. Curt is throwing himself back into the fray with a violent snarl on his lips as he dives for the other, trying to keep the advantage. Before Owen can recollect himself and counter attack, Curt is straddling his waist with hands curled around his wrists pinning them to the floor as he leans in, leering as he makes eye contact.

     "What's the matter, Carvour? Can't handle the truth?"

     It's the wrong to say, he can feel it in his gut because he knows it's a lie, but it's what he needs to tell himself. It's what he needs the self assured bastard to believe. They can never happen again. They can have this anger and aggression, the fighting and passion, but they have to give up the rest before it destroys them both. The world is suddenly turning as a surge of violence turns them over, and suddenly he's the one below, with the british agent pinning his thighs under his knees. He's helpless underneath the other, staring up into the eyes of a man who he's not sure if he trusts or loathes. Perhaps both. There's something twisting and turning in his gut, bubbling just beneath the surface.

     "Shut. Up."

     It feels familiar, as it should. The intonation, the virulent nature that makes those shivers of panic and anticipation crawl up his spine before their lips collide. It's all passion and teeth and anger. A push and pull of blame and mutual hatred as one of Owen's hands releases its harsh grip to curl violently into the american's hair. Gasping into each other's mouths as they seem to try to rip the very oxygen from each other's lungs. With a hand now free, Curt pushes himself up to a position closer to sitting, forcing the other to rock back and reposition the hand that had been pinning his wrist. There's nothing gentle or loving about the way they touch. It's bruising grips and gnashing teeth, each trying to lay a claim of dominance upon each other's skin. A violent pull of his hair pulls the american's mouth away and bares his throat with throbbing pulse that the older grazes his teeth over before sinking them in a few mere centimeters away drawing something between a groan and an involuntary moan from the younger's lips.

     Rather suddenly, the hand that's been gripping Owen's shirt is suddenly set to a new task as it's violently pushing him away without warning, forcing him off and away. They both remain on the floor for a moment, panting as they stare each other down, before he's rising. What seemed for a moment as a means to end this violent display is shown to hold a separate purpose as his hands work to undo the buttons of his shirt. There's too many layers between them, separating skin that so desperately craves touch. In the time it takes for the buttons too be opened enough to allow the offending material to be tugged over his head the british agent is on his feet again. His undershirt has yet to be removed when he finds himself being slammed against the wall. There are teeth at his throat once again, digging into the sensitive flesh hard enough the skin begins to give way beneath teeth and crimson dribbles down from them. He can't find it in himself to be bothered as one of Owen's hands pins his hips to the wall, while the other works at his belt.

     There's a needy sort of whine building in his throat as the buckle comes undone, but he refuses to set it free. Instead, one of his wandering hands moves higher, takes a violent hold of the other's hair and coerces his punishing lips back to his own. Makes him swallow the weakness that he's created, forces it down his throat. Free hand moves to Owen's hip, lets the fabric catch on his wrist as it slides upwards exposing cool skin to his burning hand. It takes more willpower than he wants to admit to stop his hips from bucking forward when his hand brushes him while pulling the belt free. Flesh is weak and his mind batters wildly against the will of his body. They can't do this again, they shouldn't, but they are. He can feel him, and he knows he wants it too. Hand falls from long hair to his other hip, tugs the shirt up higher, relishing in the bare contact of bodies. Thumb brushes over a scar in a motion that might almost be considered tender and suddenly it's the british agent's turn to break them apart, but only briefly as he discards his own shirt, curls his fists into the collar of Curt's own before tearing it down the center in one swift motion that shreds the material as easily as paper. A display of power. The torn material is pushed off his shoulders to fall to the ground amongst the rest of the discarded fabric.

     They crash back together violently, hands roam and grasp at each other as they're moving steadily in the direction of the closest bed. Acutely aware of the taste of his own blood on Owen's teeth, he bites down on the other's lip, hard, tearing into the skin until it too breaks, swapping blood as easily as they do blows and insults. It only seems fair. Copper tinges the taste of his mouth and it feels more honest this way. They can't do sweet, or gentle, it's not what they need. They are a war. A battlefield that's yet to be cleared of the dead and dying. Pain and ruin in the guise of human skins. Monsters that bring out the worst in each other however unwilling they may be. Stumbling towards the bed, Curt guides their direction forcing the other backwards as they go, but once they reach the pile of bedding still discarded on the floor from the earlier fall Owen takes control once again. Forcing the american to the bed with violent force he settles himself over his hips eliciting a hiss from the pinned man as his hands are restrained once more. Making eye contact for a long moment, he lowers his head to his sternum, biting gently at the sensitive flesh before tracing his lips up the length of it. A deceptively gentle series of kisses across the heated skin make the younger shiver as they move upwards, trailing over his collar bone, his bruising neck, and finally arrive as his earlobe that he takes between his teeth for a moment before releasing it.

     "I don't want you fucking other guys."

     Curt's hands are moved together to be pinned by the grip of only one hand, something that he finds himself surprisingly willing to accept as the now free hand moves to the button of his pants. The words cause him to shiver, another sound building in his throat that he refuses to allow to grace the air. He will not be submissive, even now. Forcing himself to find his voice once again in the midst of the violent array of sensations.

     "Give me a reason not to."

     Owen's head raises at that, and their eyes meet again, a challenge hanging in the air between them. The eye contact maintains as he sits up more, releasing his hands in the process, but the american remains still, wrists still crossed over as they both fight for dominance of the moment not with physical aggression, but rather waiting for the other to give way and submit to the moment. It's the british agent that breaks the silence first, with hands resting on the other's broad chest in a way that makes it hard for him to ignore the suggestive imagery that threatens to flood his mind, especially as long as the other has his hips rested so purposefully over his and his every shift makes him ache with need. It hurts how badly he wants him right now even when he knows that it's wrong.

     "Tell me that you want me to."

     It comes off not as a command, but a request. He wants permission, consent to confirm that it's wanted. Even in this position of power, he won't make a move, won't progress without a response. Something more than a whimper that Curt's so poorly suppressed or a momentary moan. This is no display of dominance, this is a search for consent. 

     "You know that I do."

      Words have scarcely left his lips when the british agent is moving again and he's reminded of just how badly he does, another whine trying to build in his throat as Owen's hips slide back, and he returns to those trailing bites, now descending over his chest as he raises his head to maintain eye contact as that mouth moves lower, grazing teeth over his stomach before his knees sink to the floor. Hands slide down his chest to the unbuttoned pants to make quick work of the zipper, and the american without meaning to raises his hips, allowing the fabric to be pulled free of his hips and stripped from his legs. The holster on his ankle is disposed of as well, slid across the floor to join the other gun where it lay forgotten in the throes of passion. Finally, he can feel the heat of his partner's breath at his inner thigh, creeping upwards and his eyes flutter closed with head falling back against the mattress. Part of him wishes that he would do away with the theatricality of all of this and just get on with it. The breath is replaced with hands stroking the sensitive skin between his legs.

     "Look at me."

     Demanding, it's not a request, and it's not an order that he can't bring himself to ignore. Slowly, he forces his head to raise enough to see the other, finally adjusting his arms to prop himself up on his elbows for a more comfortable view. He's hardly settled himself before he can feel his lips ghosting over him through the fabric of his briefs. His hips buck involuntarily at the action, trying to increase sensation but Owen draws his mouth away far enough that it does little to help. Instead his hands are moved from their task to hold Curt's hips in place before continuing the actions.

     " _Fucking tease_."

     The words are hissed out, causing the brit to meet his eyes with a smirk, he knows exactly what he's doing. He's enjoying every moment of this and he's not going to let up with this until he has him coming completely undone, and maybe then he'll give him what he wants. Rather than cease with his teasing, he simply brushes his lips over the whole of his length, digging his fingers into his hips a little harder when he tries once again to buck his hips up into the motion.

**Author's Note:**

> Please try not to hate me for this, I will almost definitely regret posting this, but a friend of mine convinced me to post it.


End file.
